Say buddy. Excuse me ma'am . . .
Thanks, Mark. Keep 'em coming.
Thanks, Noni! I found this awhile back. I'm sure you remember it as well as I do. Memory.
ONE FOR THE PAST
The train turns to stone
in Alberton, its people
to feather softness.
A grandfather sees his past
in these red cars.
One lone man in the woods
takes life from the bottle.
His wife, the other woman,
sleeps alone, flannel gown
laced tightly around her neck.
Vibrations of the train
in the dark can't disguise
the breath that lingers
at her door. She died
the way a dog would go
beneath these stone wheels.
The train goes by,
her scream again.
Grandfather looks back.
Snow, for a moment,
will cover the tracks.
Poetry Class with James Welch
Alberton, Montana, 1970
Thanks, Mark. Keep 'em coming.
Thanks, Noni! I found this awhile back. I'm sure you remember it as well as I do. Memory.
ONE FOR THE PAST
The train turns to stone
in Alberton, its people
to feather softness.
A grandfather sees his past
in these red cars.
One lone man in the woods
takes life from the bottle.
His wife, the other woman,
sleeps alone, flannel gown
laced tightly around her neck.
Vibrations of the train
in the dark can't disguise
the breath that lingers
at her door. She died
the way a dog would go
beneath these stone wheels.
The train goes by,
her scream again.
Grandfather looks back.
Snow, for a moment,
will cover the tracks.
Poetry Class with James Welch
Alberton, Montana, 1970